


To decline and fall in Rome

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-27
Updated: 2001-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>U2 are in Rome in spring...</p>
            </blockquote>





	To decline and fall in Rome

They call this place 'the Eternal City'. Looks pretty bloody normal to me. Sure, you can see the sounds and signs of millions of people going about their lives, but... there's nothing special here. No spark to set it apart from every other city on every other tour in every other year. Place must have gone downhill a bit since the Romans took off. I suppose I could draw some lame comparison about how they moved East, and how we've moving east, but to be honest, I don't know enough about it. Just what our tour guide mentioned in passing as we did the usual flying tour of the area. Besides, eventually everything is to the east of you...

Actually, I'm not being entirely honest here. There is something special in this city. Someone special.

A shallow man could compare him to those marble statues you see on every corner, the replicas of which every third person is trying to hawk to us gullible tourists. Pale perfection, sculpted muscles, cool smile.

Of course, unlike a lot of the real statues, he isn't missing any body parts... and I should know. Be a bit hard to play drums without arms. That was all I was thinking about, truly.

Hell, Clayton, you can't even lie to yourself. Fuck.

If I have a one track mind about him, it's certainly not focused on his arms. Not that there's anything wrong with his arms... God, there I go again.

But then, all appearances to the contrary, I am not a shallow man...

It's been said before, and it's been said better; by lovers and poets since the dawn of time, but of course, I'm neither a poet nor his lover. My love is _not_ some cold statue, frozen perfection for one eternal moment. He is warm and alive and passionate and bright and clever and sarcastic and strong and, damnit, he's naked in my room even as I walk.

Larry, Larry, Larry. Who the _fuck_ sleeps naked when they're sharing rooms? Damnit, I know you didn't use to. We've shared rooms - and beds, and I don't need to think about that now, damnit, I don't - often enough that I should know that. So now I'm wandering around outside our hotel, alone in the twilight while you sleep off the bloody jetlag. I don't trust myself. Not after the way my fingers itched in the limo, creeping forward to stroke your hair as you dozed. Not with a bruise on my hip where you elbowed me angrily when I kept bugging you after last night's gig. I knew something was wrong with you, so of course, you take out your anger on good old Adam... and run crying to Bono. Fuck.

Was I trying to convince myself that I'm not shallow? I guess I am. But you're not perfect, thank God, and sometimes I can even believe it. And it's not just that body and that voice and the way you move and slide through my dreams that makes me want you. It's remembering nights out drinking, chatting, raising hell, doing all the things teenage boys - and guys in rock bands - do. It's knowing that no matter how badly I fuck up, you'll be there. You _care_ about me, and about the other guys, too. It's that feeling you get when you hit just the right note in the studio, when everything comes together so perfectly that it's as if you're playing a childhood tune and not a brand new one. It's being carried away by the roar of thousands of people, happy and joyful. It's the way that heat ripples through me when you smile, pricking my skin into goose pimples, and damnit, Larry... you're supposed to be _mine_. I'm as certain of that as I am that the sun rises in the east. Mine.

I glance around, and I'm standing at the base of some great big freaking staircase. White, marble, picturesque as hell. Lots of tourists, cameras clicking and children laughing and screaming and chasing each other around. It looks vaguely familiar, guess I've seen it in a movie or something. A faint memory of this morning's whirlwind tour surfaces, and I put a name to it. 'The Spanish Steps'. I know there was some story behind it, can't be bothered remembering now. It's not important.

I look up now, tracing the steps to the top, and notice for the first time all the people sitting, leaning, even the odd sleeper. To my jealous, tired, lust-addled brain, they all seem to be couples. Kissing, hugging, and it's so fucking romantic that I feel my heart twist. I watch a man talk to one of the flower sellers, (there seem to be a thousand of them) conduct some haggled bargain, and hurry back to his lady with a deep red rose. He hands it to her, and she smiles, and then they're kissing and touching and devouring each other right there on the street. Amused, I think "God, get a _room_ " and then sudden it's not funny any more, because I'm thinking about what's in _my_ room.

Walk, Clayton. Walk. Get him out of your system. Hell, buy some flowers and pick up some pretty Italian girl and pretend that you're not thinking of him.

I don't really have anything better to do, so I start to climb the stairs. They're a bit steeper than I expected, and while I'm not exactly unfit, I find myself stopping near the top. Just to admire the view, of course. I sit down, and the marble is cool to the touch. I can feel the chill through my clothes. Guess it isn't warm enough yet to turn this into the heat trap I suspect it is in high summer.

Without meaning to, I rest my head in my hands, hide the world from my eyes for a moment. I don't need to people-watch. I'll see enough people from the stage when we play tomorrow night. I can feel the last rays of the weak early spring sun pressing against my shirt, the slow warmth seeping into my shoulders, and for a moment - just a moment - I let myself pretend that it's Larry's hand on my shoulders, his arm around me as we rest, his voice in my ear, calling my na- _wait_ a minute...

My head snaps up, and I don't even worry for a second that it's a fan or someone from the crew, because I know his voice as surely as I know my own name.

He sits down next to me, blinking as the sun hits his eyes full on, the dirty blonde hair mussed and inviting and a frown on those lips. His thigh presses against mine as he moves beside me, and I wonder whether the marble is still cold, because my skin is heating unbearably now. But my voice, thank God, is steady as ever, as I turn to him and crook an eyebrow.

"Why, Lar, out of bed so early?"

He makes a face at me, and I can see, still, the shadow of some worry on his face, and some nasty part of me crows that hah, Bono can't fix everything.

"Couldn't sleep after all... why'd you take off? I thought you were gonna crash, too... you didn't sleep on the plane, Adam."

I realize belatedly that this is why my eyes are sore and my head muzzy. I haven't been sleeping. Of course. That explains it all. I'll just go to bed and this whole stupid fixation on my friend will all be over. And then I remember why I couldn't sleep, and it's all his fault again. Bastard.

"Just wanted a walk... besides, your little naturalist routine was a little off putting, Lardence..."

He looks faintly embarrassed, and I wonder if this time I can get him to blush.

"Why did you follow me, Lar? Thought you were out for the night back there."

He makes some noncommittal noise, and looks up at me with those blue eyes of his. I'm caught as easily as a fly in the web, a moth to drawn to flame, fascinated.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

It takes me a moment to realize he's changed the subject, and I hasten to agree. Then he's squeezing closer to me, laying his head on my shoulder, as a veritable army of tourists tromp past us to the top. My whole body tenses, and I know he can feel it. The four of us in the band have, over the years, developed a very loose 'personal space' when it comes to the others... of course, Bono and Edge are the blatant example, the way they drape themselves over each other on and off stage, but really, it's the same for the four of us. Was, anyway. I find myself remembering all the times I've shared smokes and couches and seats and oxygen, just about, with Larry, and my gut twists as the fire races through me once again. Then I have to force my body to relax again, one muscle at a time, so that he doesn't ask any uncomfortable questions, until all that's left are my shaking hands, which I hide in my pockets.

I'm not going to smell his hair. I refuse to. It's so fucking cliched. I'm still shaking, so I try to breathe deeply, slowly, like in those bloody yoga ads. That didn't count, did it? God, but he smells good. He had a shower after we got in, and he's still using that apple shampoo. How easily I break my promises...

A girl walks past us, licking an ice cream, and between one breath and the next I'm using the imagery, wondering what it would be like to run my tongue over Larry, lick him clean like a helpless little cub.

He may be little, but he's certainly no cub and nor is he helpless, and I'm reminded of this as he elbows me - again, the fucker, I'm gonna have bruises tomorrow - and stands up in one quick, angry motion.

"Oh, fuck it." And he's gone.

A split second, where I wonder when he learned how to read my mind, and then sanity, when I think that he's tired and jet lagged, and - God, what did I do wrong this time? Yes, Clayton, the world does revolve around you. Everything's your fault, sure.

Now I'm just being bloody stupid.

I stand up, figuring that if he's off sulking, which I translate as "run to Bono and bitch and moan", I'm safe to go back to the room and do some moping of my own. I stand up, turn - and run straight into him. He's looking at me, our eyes on an exact level for once, since he's still one step above, and the shock runs straight through me. My eyes drop down for just a second as he presses something cool and thin and velvety crimson - a rose?! - into my hands and then he moves that last half inch and presses his lips to mine.

Oh dear God...

I'm stupid with shock, and not entirely sure I'm awake, and so I don't move until he pulls back from me, pain in his eyes and apologies forming on his lips. That pain wakes me out of my trance, and I wind my arms around him and pull him close for another kiss, the rose in a death grip in the hand clutching at his neck.

His lips are warm, and they press eagerly against mine, his tongue slipping between my lips and sending fireworks shooting along my spine, and I groan into his mouth because he tastes so good and where the hell did he learn how to kiss like this?

When we finally do break apart I'm relieved to see the shock swimming in my eyes mirrored in his. He didn't know how I felt, not for certain, and I admire his courage.

We walk slowly back to the hotel room and then there's that awkward moment after the door shuts, when neither of us really knows what to do or say.

"Lar?" I lick my lips nervously, a smile tugging at them as I see his eyes drop to trace the path of my tongue. "What the hell was with the "don't mind me, I sleep naked all the time" routine before?"

This time he does blush, and damn, but it's adorable.

"You were supposed to be overcome with lust and jump in the bed _with_ me, you great git." He pauses a moment, and then I can see the devilish grin on his face, that perfect angelic expression which normally precedes his most outrageous stunts. "Bono said it'd work-"

I don't know what my expression changed to, but I think the jealousy is more than evident, because he's kissing me again.

Eventually, reluctantly, his mouth slips from mine, and, stubborn and pigheaded as ever, I have to worry at one last thing.

"You talked to _Bono_ about me?"

He nods slowly.

"Adam - I had to talk to someone. And normally I talk to _you,_ but of course this time I couldn't, and Bono said he and Edge sort of knew before I told him, and he said you had a crush on me too, but I didn't believe him. I'm sorry."

How can I hold a grudge when he looks at me like that, swollen lips and earnest, worried eyes? So he talked to someone else for a change. Big fucking deal. That's not important, and I know it. Besides... I'm finding myself approving of Bono's idea. Maybe I should thank him later. He'll just smirk at me, of course, and - why am I thinking about _Bono_ now anyway? Priorities, Clayton, priorities. And I know where mine are...

"Don't apologize." I breathe it into his ear, and it turns into a kiss, a brief caress of my lips over his ear, and suddenly I don't care what Bono and Edge know or what they might think because I'm focused on discovering what exactly it is that Larry's skin tastes like. He shudders as my tongue flicks lightly over his face, eyes fluttering closed and lips parted as he tries to breath normally. It's too tempting, and I dive back into the haven of his mouth, and then we're on the bed and I'm pressing up against him, rubbing my body over his like a giant cat. His fingers are busy with my shirt and then his teeth are scraping against my collarbone, and I gasp because it feels so damn good.

The shirt hits the floor and his hands are all over me, my back and my shoulders and my chest, he's running those cool, steady fingers oh-so-lightly up my arms, and I can feel the skin coming up in goosebumps and I just want more. I can't think how he's managing to move so easily, I'm lying right on top of him, and he's smaller than me, for Chrissake... must remember that, don't want to hurt him. Don't ever want to hurt him.

His mouth is so hot against mine, his tongue pressing against my lips, tracing the inner curve and running over my teeth and I'd swear I've got nerves in them, because I can feel it down to my toes. Or maybe it's the hand that's slipped just inside my pants, blunt nails biting gently into my back under the waistband. God, he's so fucking flexible. That thought sends another flurry of images darting across my preoccupied mind, no time to analyze them now... except for... oh God, yes, I want to to _that_.

I wriggle off him so that we're lying side-by-side, my hands resting at his hips still, and I kiss his forehead, the dirty blonde hair falling over it in disarray, and he still smells so good; apple and sweat and passion and _Larry_. I press my head against his for just one moment, not kissing, just sharing his space, before our eyes meet, then I'm drowning and I kiss him again, once, twice, a thousand times; kisses beyond counting by the time he's finally naked.

At some hazy point not long afterwards, I find myself just as bare, my jeans and underwear have joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and I have a split second to find it amusing that Larry, of all people, is contributing to messing up the room. Of course, it's going to get a lot more messy in here pretty damn soon.

We've been rolling around a fair bit, lucky it's a big bed, and right now he's sprawled over my chest, tongueing my nipples, head bent in concentration, eyes narrowed. That pretty mouth of his is most certainly more than decorative, and he's sliding all over me, lips and tongue and teeth playing me like an instrument. It's not the best simile in the book, but it's true. He knows exactly what buttons to press. I'm not sure whether that's luck or instinct or long friendship or even any combination of the three. I just hope I can do the same for him. He's enjoying this every bit as much as I am, and believe me, by God he knows it. I'm going to be hoarse tomorrow, the way my voice is cracking even now; as I whimper and moan and murmur endearments that I'm not even censoring any more. Sure, some of it is dirty, but mostly it's all those thoughts and feelings I've never managed to express; the thoughts my pride and fear won't let simmer any further than the back of my mind, and now they're spilling forth and boiling over. And he's meeting them with soft, careful touches, and his own words which meld seamlessly with mine and I don't even bother wondering why we never did this before because we're doing it now and it's perfect.

His mouth, swollen and pink and utterly sinful, trails over my shoulder and neck back up to mine, and this kiss is so gentle and so beautiful that I forget to breathe. And despite the fact that we're both naked and hard and needy and the air is so thick with lust and sex I can barely move, despite all that, I feel a stillness, a calm that cloaks both of us, so I can look into his eyes and tell him I love him.

I love him.

He loves me.

Bliss.

Sheer, unadulterated, pure fucking bliss.

And speaking of fucking... it's my turn to slide down his body, no hurry to my movements now, no frantic rush to fulfillment, that calm is still winding around the both of us, and I take my time to admire him, supplicate myself before him, marvelling at the soft, pale skin, running fingertips over his stomach, blowing lightly on it and watching the shudders race across his belly, the soft panting as he breathes my name.

My hands are on his thighs now, my own legs hanging off the end of the bed, the covers feeling harsh against unprotected skin, but I'm barely aware because my lips are hovering over him, and this is new territory for both of us. My hand is shaking worse than I can ever remember as it slips from his thigh, and runs slowly across his hip and I bend to mark him there while I think of it; my teeth leaving faint, teeth-shaped depressions, a beautiful imperfection to match the three freckles I find on his thigh, and the tiny scar on this side. My cheek brushes against his cock as I straighten up again, something that leaves me breathless - again - and pulls a low moan from his throat.

My hand curls slowly around his cock, stroking gently as Larry arches off the bed, pressing into my touch with soft cries, begging me to take him higher, and I press him back to the bed, fingers imprinting on that pale skin, biting into his flesh just below his waist as I bend and wrap my lips around the head of his cock. He squirms underneath me, and his cries take on a new pitch, their tone more frantic, his accent thickening and turning the broken speech imperceptible, even to me. My tongue sweeps across, around him, exploring and tasting, and I'm definitely in favour of this idea.

Oh, Larry. _My_ Larry.

I know, I'm possessive, but I think you like it, don't you, Lar?

Careless, I abrade the sensitive skin with my teeth, and he hisses with pain. I'm instantly contrite, and I remind myself I'm not a fucking expert. Yet. I'm more careful with the next stroke, lips sliding wetly over his skin, and one hand rubbing tiny circles around the base. I can feel the moment when he falls, when the shudders run uncontrolled through his body, setting off the chain reaction, and he's crying out, voice husky and God, it's so arousing I almost come myself.

I was right about this getting messy. Aw, hell. That's why we have room service.

He's almost purring with contentment, as I lick at his belly for a moment, tasting him one last time before I go back to his mouth for another fix, cleaning him off with the corner of the sheet and shoving it away from us. Larry, relaxed and satiated, _that_ grin spread across his face. I'd do almost anything to let him keep feeling that forever.

His tongue moves against mine with interest, and the growl deep in his throat - which I feel more than I hear - tells me he can taste himself on my lips, and he doesn't care. He wraps his arms around me lazily, body-to-body again, and only now do I become aware that while there is a great deal of satisfaction in having my wicked way with him, my own body is growing a little impatient for some attention. It looks like I'm not the only one to have come to this realization, because he's opening his eyes again now, looking speculatively at me, before rocking his pelvis against mine in an unmistakably deliberate motion. I can't restrain the groan as he presses against me, as his hands move over my sides, the wracking shudder as he finds a ticklish spot above my ribs, and I'm moaning wordlessly as those clever fingers of his go directly to where I want them the most. I'm utterly uninhibited for the first time I can remember, moaning, twitching, shaking as he works his magic on me, and I can feel my mind begin to melt and buckle. He takes my cock into his mouth with enthusiasm, and what seems to be more skill than I managed (although I'm sure that's just perspective), and within seconds I feel the first shakes and tremors run through me, his warm, wet mouth shorting a current through my body, then I feel the twist in my stomach, the aching, torturous, wonderful moment when it all goes crazy and I'm coming and nothing could prevent it.

I collapse back down onto the bed, shaking, my vision starry and spotted with black. Intense doesn't even come close to describing that, and he's so gentle, wiping my stomach and legs, and his mouth, and God, how deliciously dirty that looks, before kicking the stained sheet off the bed and curling into my arms again.

We fall asleep together, waking up at some point and switching beds, because quite frankly Larry's bed (as it turned out to have been) was on the chilly side without blankets.

I wake up as the sun is rising, the pink-and-yellow glow peeking around the sides of the curtains in the room, and I know that we'll have to get up and go soon, hopefully before Bono or Edge came banging on the door to hurry us along.

Then that other awkward moment, when both of us are fully awake, neither sure how to communicate now.

"Morning..." His eyes are only half open and he has to lick his lips several times before he can speak, and he's so adorable like this.

"Morning yourself, Lar."

Insecurity, sudden and gut wrenching, (although it's a bit late now, isn't it, Clayton?) forces me to ask him how he is. His answering smile liquifies every bone in my body, heat flaring through me.

"Why now, Larry? Not that I'm complaining... " I have to ask this as well. It was him, really, who took the step that brought us to this bed now, regardless of who stripped who and who went down on who first and all those other things, because I would never have had the courage to do any of it without such a strong affirmation of his feelings as his kiss and the rose on the Steps had been.

He shrugs and looks helplessly at me. He struggles for the words, but when they do come, they resound inside my head, and fall into place easily. I understand him so well sometimes.

"Seeing you, sitting on the steps, looking so damn miserable... Seeing that hurt more than fearing what could go wrong." He pauses for a comment, and then continues determinedly, his face twisting with emotion. "Adam - I'm sorry. I should have said or done something sooner, but you're-" he gestures helplessly, "you're bright and you're clever and passionate and funny and I don't want to be without you any longer."

I still for a moment, hearing my own words reflected in his.

Then I kiss him, hard, all lips and tongue and teeth and blood singing in my veins, because he's more wonderful than I can ever tell him.

Wonderful. Mine.

And I am his.


End file.
